


Bob Will Never Hurt You

by 1001cranes



Category: Bandom, My Chemical Romance
Genre: Blood Drinking, M/M, Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-02
Updated: 2011-08-02
Packaged: 2017-10-22 02:56:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,365
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/232993
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/1001cranes/pseuds/1001cranes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bob gets turned into a vampire while touring with The Used.</p><p>He’d like to say weirder things happened, but that pretty much took the cake.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bob Will Never Hurt You

**Author's Note:**

> One late night languisity and I were pondering the eternal “what if” of someone in MCR being a vampire (because lets face it, out of all of our bandom bands? Pete only _wishes_ he could be as cool a vampire as Gerard could be.) Which led to a discussion of who would be the least likely vampire – Bob, clearly.

Bob gets turned into a vampire while touring with The Used.

He’d like to say weirder things happened, but that pretty much took the cake.

| |

Being a vampire is okay. It’s not as bad as some movies make it seem, but it’s not that great either. Bob’s a little stronger, maybe a little faster, but it’s not worth trading in your humanity for a pair of fangs and a thirst for blood. Seriously.

The blood sucking is unfortunate but necessary. Bob doesn’t need much – maybe a pint a week – but it’s irritating enough to be a problem. Brian’s on top of things. Brian’s always on top of things, thank God, because touring would be unbearable if Brian didn’t know, if he didn’t have it set up so someone dropped by with blood every few days. After all, it’s not like Bob can store it anywhere on the bus. Gerard would probably mistake it for his make-up and hilarity of that aside, Bob can’t plausibly explain why he’s keeping blood in the mini-fridge. Pete Wentz might be able to get away with that shit, but not Bob.

| |

On one of their Canadian dates the delivery doesn’t come and not only is it bad fucking business, its bad fucking timing. It’s been nearly a week since the last delivery. Any other time Bob could maybe wait it out, but right now they’re on Warped. Bob spends too much time in the sun, he doesn’t sleep enough, and it’s always entirely too fucking hot, not to mention the physically draining human disaster that is _Frank_. Bob’s exhausted. He’s hungry. He goes looking for Brian.

He has to accost about half a dozen bands on the way, but eventually someone tips him off to the bonfire near Story of the Year’s bus. There’s a whole group partying there. It’s July, but it’s still cold enough at night for the area around the fire to be crowded. It’s pretty early and My Chem is still loosely grouped together; Ray talking guitars with some guys Bob thinks are from Kiros, Mikey quietly and awkwardly leaning into Pete while Patrick and Brian pretend not to watch too closely, Gerard talking animatedly to Frank and sloshing Red Bull everywhere. When Bob gets closer Frank launches himself at Bob’s side, legs wrapping around the top part of Bob’s thighs. Bob stumbles and nearly falls before Frank drops back down to frown at him.

“You okay?”

“Fine,” Bob says easily. “You putting on weight?”

“Fucker.” Frank punches Bob in the arm and hands him a beer. Bob takes a sip and pulls a face. It’s not what he wants at all.

“You _sure_ you’re okay?” Frank asks and punches him again, a little gentler this time. Gentler for Frank anyway, which is a bonus. Bob doesn’t even feel like flipping him off right now. “Want something to eat?”

Bob shakes his head, knowing he’s probably looking a little pale and queasy around the edges. “Had to ask Brian something.”

“Brian!” Frank yells, like the little fucktard he is, “Brian, Bob’s dying!” And even though Frank’s laughing as he says it Brian whips around from where he’s been chatting with Gerard, suddenly looking as sick as Bob probably feels.

“Fuck,” he says. “Bob, man, fuck. Are you –”

Everyone in the band’s looking at them now. Usually Brian doesn’t freak out like this. Isn’t this obvious. Bob figures he must _actually_ look like the undead.

“I want a real shower,” he deadpans. “And eight hours of uninterrupted sleep. And Frank to stop using me as his personal jungle gym.”

There’s a very long pause.

“Well, good luck with that,” Gerard says finally, and Ray lifts his beer. Frank giggles and launches himself at Bob again.

“Bob’s breakable,” Brian says wryly, pulling at Frank until he lets go with a little whine. “And we can’t get a new one if you destroy him, Iero, so why don’t you take it easy for a few days.” Brian leans over and murmurs in Bob’s ear, one arm splayed casually over Bob’s shoulders. “Are you…?”

“The guy didn’t show up,” Bob says, and Brian’s hand tightens.

“Shit. Okay.” Brian pulls out his phone out of his pocket and starts to drag Bob towards the bus. “Let me see what I can do.”

No one is looking directly at them anymore, but Bob can tell they’re still straining to hear every hushed word. Gerard sends some kind of hand spasm their way as they leave, but Mikey raises his eyebrows and Ray half-grins. Bob makes it about halfway to the Fall Out Boy bus before he has to say something.

“You realize they probably think...”

“We’re fucking?” Brian says with a small grin, tooling through the contacts on his phone. “You’re totally improving my reputation, Bryar.”

Bob relaxes. “What about _my_ reputation?”

“Henry,” Brian says absently, attention already back on his phone. “Maybe – Henry, hey, it’s Brian –” Brian pushed Bob onto the bus and towards his bunk. “Listen, I know this is short notice…”

Bob shoves aside the curtain in front of his bunk and falls in, listening to Brian stomp around in the lounge. When Brian comes back in about a half an hour later Bob is still lying on his back and trying not to feel so queasy.

“Henry could only get me in touch with a guy in Salt Lake,” Brian says, and looks at Bob head-on. “So if you want me to, I can.”

Bob doesn’t say yes but he doesn’t say no, and he knows his eyes follow the line of Brian’s neck when he pulls back.

“It’ll be at least two days,” Brian continues apologetically, like it’s his fault the guy who runs deliveries punked out on them. Knowing Brian, he might wake up tomorrow with a busted knee. Brian kind of impresses Bob like that.

Bob doesn’t feel like waiting a day. He could, but he has to spend it looking at everyone like they’re dinner on legs – edible legs, like they’re giant Thanksgiving turkeys that got up and starting walking around just to taunt him – and that’s not going to do much for his reputation.

“Yeah,” he says. “Sorry, but. Yeah.”

“Okay. Okay, just give me a minute. Frank still got those health shakes?”

“In one of the cupboards.”

“Right.” Brian disappears for a moment before coming back with two cans. He set them down besides the bunk before pulling off his shirt and climbing in next to Bob. They’ve had to do this a time or two before. He knows what to do. It’s not a bloodbath every time Bob bites in, but that doesn’t mean there won’t be a little blood. Bob likes the closeness too – not sexual, not like that, but in that Bob can feel the heartbeat a little better. Hear it. Makes it easier to know when to stop. Makes him feel safer about this.

When he’s done Brian drinks both of the shakes and still looks a little woozy.

“Need me to walk you back?”

“Fuck you, Bryar. You my boyfriend now?” Brian flips him off and makes it to the door without staggering, and Bob figures that if worse comes to worse Brian will just look as drunk as everyone else. He rolls over and falls asleep, waking up just once when Frank and Mikey clatter-gangle-stumble their way into the room.

“Brian,” Frank stage-whispers, “Brian, did you heal Bob with the power of your cock?”

“For fuck’s sake,” Bob growls, and reminds himself for the twelfth time in as many hours that no, ripping Frank’s arms off is not an option. The jury is still out on his legs. “He’s on his _own_ goddamn bus.”

“No bathing in the afterglow?” Bob can hear Mikey snickering somewhere behind him. Bob ignores them and rolls back over. He wakes them up by playing Minor Threat at top volume the next morning, and Bob thinks that’s going to be the end of it – it _should_ be the end of it. When did he stop being the band’s requisite scary motherfucker? – but Brian spends the next day walking around with what looks like the mother of all hickeys, because while vampire bites themselves heal fast the area around them tends to bruise. Bob’s chockful of blood, and he feels it rush to his face any time someone sees Brian and grins.

A few days later they’re in Denver, just after Salt Lake, and Bob’s so well-fed at this point he’s feeling a little gluttonous and not at all like ripping anyone’s throat out, even when his marching snare disappears for half an hour. After soundcheck Frank saunters over to Bob and offers him a cigarette before pulling out one for himself. Bob decides to mentally brace himself.

“Brian takes good care of you, huh?”

Bob nods a bit, thinking _not like you mean_. “We’re friends,” he settles on finally, and shrugs. “It’s not like. You know.”

“Oh,” Frank says, chewing on his bottom lip. “So I don’t get to be like, best man then? And give a really embarrassing toast?”

“I’d eat your kidney. With relish.”

“Then what would we do at the bachelor party?”

“Set fire to Ray’s hair.”

Frank giggles. “I don’t think we’d make it to your wedding.”

Bob finishes his cigarette and flicks the butt at Frank’s head. “My non-existent wedding to Brian, right.”

| |

One of the things Bob’s ashamed to admit is that he likes to sink his teeth into someone now and again. He doesn’t know a vampire who doesn’t, but it’s pretty ill-advised. It’s not like the movies, where you can just hypnotize someone and tell them they won’t remember a thing. You need someone who knows and isn’t going to freak, and besides that, Bob’s pretty picky about who he actually feeds from. Anne Rice fans terrify him the most, but the people who go to My Chem concerts generally aren’t much better. Snacking on the fangirls, much like sleeping with them, is a big no-no.

Lately Bob has been thinking about telling the other guys. It’s tiring, hiding what he is all the time. Between sneaking away to get the blood, finding some place secluded to drink it, and looking at the guys like Meals on Legs when he goes too long between feedings – it’s all a little draining, pardon the awful fucking pun. That’s partly how Brian found out about him in the early days – Bob was so busy skulking off to dark places to feed Brian thought he was doing smack, or something. Bob kind of owes them, you know? Not in a tit-for-tat way, just… they’ve always been honest with him, honest about all of their shit, and it makes Bob feel a little like an asshole for not telling them, because he’s sure none of the guys are going to freak out and try to stake him. Pretty sure, anyway. Considering Mikey and Gerard’s formative years were spent in a basement reading comics, he’s not _entirely_ willing to take that bet.

“So,” Bob starts, “I think we need to call a band meeting.”

Everyone goes instantly and eerily silent. Mikey drops his Sidekick and blinks at Bob owlishly, Ray and Gerard look at each other and pull what could only be called a Vulcan mind meld, and Frank falls off the side of the couch. The most unusual part of that is Mikey letting go of his deathgrip on his Sidekick – or maybe the part where he makes actual eye contact – but either way Bob thinks he should give him a minute to settle down. There’s an undercurrent in the room now, something like the tension everyone feels before going onstage but without knowing there’s going to be a way to get rid of it.

“It’s kind of important,” he adds, completely unnecessarily, but what the hell. It _is_ kind of important.

“Are we going to need a new drummer?” Gerard asks hesitantly. “‘Cause Brian will be seriously pissed.”

Bob shakes his head. “Brian knows. It’s. I won’t have to leave unless you guys want me to. I’ve been, uh. Not lying,” he says decisively. “But I never told you either, so.”

Bob really has no idea what to say.

“Fuck. I’m just going to show you. Uhm. Ray, can I…?”

Ray just looks completely bewildered. “What?”

Bob sighs. The fangs can’t just come out on their own. Bob needs to be hungry, or he at least needs to be near _food_ , and Ray’s pretty unexcitable – considering Gerard’s one step away from flaming queen, Mikey has the constitution of your average Victorian lady with the vapors, and Frank gets excited about breathing, Ray pretty much wins by default.

“Gimme your hand for a second.” Normally that would be enough mocking material for a month. Bob brings Ray’s hand to his face until he can see the veins underneath, the delicate beat that Bob could find by touch alone, that he thinks of even in his sleep. And when Bob’s fangs finally do descend, all Hell breaks loose. Gerard gasps like a drowning man being pulled out of a river, Frank falls back over the couch, and Mikey actually _jumps out of his chair_. Ray yanks his hand back so fast Bob has to stop himself from grabbing it out of reflex.

“Jesus Christ.”

“Vampire, actually,” Bob says slowly, carefully speaking around the fangs. It feels a little like yawning when they retract. “Vampire,” he says again, watching everyone’s faces go pale – in Gerard’s case, almost ghostly – their eyes round.

“Vampire,” Mikey repeats. “You’re a _vampire_?”

“I thought it was gonna be, like, cancer,” Frank says thoughtfully, already crawling back onto the couch. “Or you and Brian were getting married and adopting little Vietnamese children. Is being a vampire better or worse?”

“Better,” Gerard says, at the exact moment Mikey groans, “worse.”

Frank rolls his eyes. Ray still looks a little spooked.

“I wouldn’t have bitten you,” Bob says softly. It’s not like he’s hurt, exactly, because he’d probably punch in the face of a guy who suddenly grew fangs, but its important Ray knows. That everyone knows.

Ray blinks. “I know,” he says. “I mean, of course I know, just –”

“A little scary,” Frank adds helpfully.

Gerard flails. “A little awesome!”

Bob ducks his head and smiles.

“Can you fly?” Gerard asks. “Are you super strong? Are you really fast?” His eyes widen. “Do you drink blood?”

Mikey’s head snaps up exactly like when someone says ‘coffee’ wherever Gerard can hear.

“Blood?”

“Wouldn’t be a vampire if I didn’t.”

“Not really,” Gerard says earnestly. “Plenty of vampire folklore and different cultural versions have vampires who steal life force, or energy, or…” Frank rolls his eyes. Mikey turns back to his Sidekick.

Bob calmly waits until Gerard runs out of breath and puts one hand over his mouth. “Blood, Gee.”

Gerard licks Bob’s hand. Bob smushes his palm onto Gerard’s cheek and Gerard grins. “Have you been feeding off of our groupies?”

Mikey’s jaw drops. “Have you been feeding off of _Brian_?”

“Sometimes,” Bob admits. “We get blood delivered, but it’s not – that night, when you thought – the blood never came.”

“Hah!” Frank jumps up onto the couch. “I _knew_ you guys weren’t really fucking!” Bob shoves Frank back down and all the remaining tension in the room drops. If Frank’s fucking around and Bob’s shoving him places, it can’t be all bad.

“How’d it happen?” Ray asks softly.

Bob hesitates. The whole Bert and Gerard clusterfuck is still pretty fresh. “On tour with The Used. Somewhere in Europe, I don’t even – I’m not sure, really. I guess I was kind of out of it the first few days, before one of the local guys clued Jepha in. He called me _strigoi_ , but when he mentioned needing blood it wasn’t too hard to figure out what he meant.”

“I vote we don’t tour Europe anymore,” Mikey says loudly. “How about that, guys?”

Frank nods vigorously over the back of the couch while Gerard just looks thoughtful. When Ray starts arguing for the virtues of European chicks over American ones, with Frank loudly disagreeing, Bob starts a mental countdown on how long it takes Gerard to ask Bob about turning him.

| |

Telling the guys doesn’t cause the problems Bob was worried about. No one seems to have a second thought about invading his personal space or sneaking up on him or jumping on him, sharing his food or his cigarettes, or sneaking into his bunk. It’s the problems he _didn’t_ see coming that are driving him crazy. Like, for example, Frank and Gerard’s sudden obsession with knowing everything about vampires. Ever.

“What about sunlight?” Gerard asks perkily one morning, one coffee in hand and another on the table beside him.

“Not my favorite.” It’s too early for this shit, seriously. “Non-lethal as long as I don’t let myself roast. I can get sun poisoning pretty easily.”

“Stake to the heart?” Frank asks.

“Yes.”

“Beheading?”

“Yes.”

“Burnt alive?”

“If it could kill one of you guys, it could kill me.” Bob turns to look at Frank. “So don’t get any ideas.”

Frank holds his hands up in a “who, me?” gesture. Bob is not fooled in the slightest.

“Crucifix?”

“Have you _noticed_ a problem with that?”

“Garlic?”

“I like Italian.”

“Silver?”

“What’s my lip ring made out of?”

Gerard narrowed his eyes before nodding. “So, obviously no problems with running water or mirrors or anything like that either.”

“No, Gerard. No.”

“Can you drink animal blood?”

They have no band without a lead singer. Bob tries to remind himself of that. “Doable, just not a great plan. Human blood is richest in hemoglobin. I have to drink four or five times as much animal blood just to get by.”

“How much would you need?”

“Animal blood? Maybe a pint a day.”

Gerard whistles. “What’s that? Like a small dog?”

Ray snorts, Frank giggles, and Bob slams his head down onto the table. “Gee, I have no fucking clue, okay?”

No one ever talks about this shit in Behind The Music.

Gerard’s eyes suddenly go wide. “I am _totally_ rewatching all my Buffy DVDs. Except maybe Season Seven, because – ”

“It sucked, Gee, we know,” Mikey says.

“It _did_ ,” Gerard insists. “It totally did, okay, I don’t care how much you like Faith – ”

Frank jumps into the argument in defense of Faith, and Ray and Bob share a look of the long-suffering. When Mikey and Frank become engrossed in extolling Eliza Dushku’s virtues, Gerard sidles over to Bob and throws one arm around his shoulders.

“Bob. Bob, I want Red Bull and gummy dinosaurs and the second half of Season Three.”

“Are you going to re-enact the scenes with gummy dinosaurs?”

“If you’re lucky. Wanna watch with me?”

Bob shrugs Gerard off. “I don’t like to watch vampire movies.”

“Is it because of the total inaccuracy?”

“More like the part where they get staked a lot.”

Gerard gets a dreamy look on his face. “I wonder if you’d really explode.”

Bob tried not to get offended. Gerard’s probably thought of weirder and more personally offensive things. Today, even.

| |

Things don’t change. Sure, Frank can’t stop giggling when blood ends up being the main concept for their photo spreads – which happens fuck-all more than Bob thinks should be normal – and when Bob and Ray hang out, Ray sometimes brings a pint of O-neg instead of a six-pack. Gerard also gives Bob _Blade_ comics for his birthday, but that could have happened anyway. Mostly they ignore it. They don’t mention it. Like they don’t mention Bert-and-Gerard, or how Mikey’s still not over the Summer of Like, or that Frank most definitely does _not_ shriek like a girl when he sees a spider. Things move along and shit happens but it’s nothing they can’t handle.

| |

When half the tour ends up getting food poisoning, Bob spends a day and a half puking his guts out and praying to God that nothing like this ever, ever happens to him again. Frank manages to miss out on getting sick entirely by virtue of being the band’s token vegetarian, the little bastard. Brian says Gerard has it the worst, which Bob doesn’t even want to _imagine_. His voice ends up completely shot and Bob is kind of stupidly grateful for that, because that means a few more days rest for him.

Two days into the whole fiasco Mikey and Bob are allowed to relocate to the hotel and die there instead. Gerard and Ray are still hooked up to IVs. Brian’s watching over them, terrorizing the nursing staff, and trying to reschedule their dates, all at once. Frank spends about two hours with Mikey before Mikey threatens to sic Alicia on him and Frank scurries off to bother Bob.

Bob is strangely grateful for the distraction.

He considers checking back into the hospital.

Frank bounces up and down next to him on the bed until Bob growls that he’s feeling nauseous and knows _exactly_ where to aim. Frank settles down and they flip through all of the late night channels three times until they find the most promising infomercials. A tired looking middle-aged woman is currently demonstrating the virtues of a vacuum pack for easy storage and economic convenience. She’s vacuum sealing pot roast, marbled pink-purple-red, and that’s when Bob realizes. He’s been a little off-kilter, but he never thought there might be another reason for it until now.

“I’m hungry.”

Frank pats Bob on the back. “Dude, the doctors have you on like, Jell-O and broth for the next week.”

“Not that kind of hungry,” Bob rasps, and Frank’s jaw drops in understanding, mouth forming a perfect ‘O.’

“Uhm. When are you…?”

“Brian was sending a guy after the show in Columbus.”

“Can you make it that long?” Frank asks softly, hand moving slowly over Bob’s shoulder. “I mean, they’re still talking about canceling it.”

“Doubt it.” Bob took a deep breath. “Where are we?”

“Some bumfuck town in the middle of Pennsylvania. Are you. Can I.” Frank sucks on his lip ring for a second. “Do you know any place to go?”

“There’s usually someone at the hospital.” Bob shakes his head. “No way of knowing who though. Coroner, guy who runs the blood bank, random nurse.”

“Right. So. Brian?”

“Brian sets this shit up in advance. And he’s got enough to worry about right now anyway.” Brian’s juggling forty things and trying to pretend it’s not running him ragged. Bob’s not going to bother him unless he has to.

They sit in silence for a long moment, Frank chewing on his lip ring and Bob tapping his fingers absently.

“We could go to the store,” Bob says finally.

“Huh?”

“Grocery store,” he clarifies. “Find a twenty-four hour one, get some steaks. You’re not gonna wanna be around when I eat them, but they’ll pull me through.”

Frank’s eyes widen. “Dude. No way am I making you eat raw steak, just – ” Frank clears his throat and pulls a little on his collar. “Just avoid the tattoo, alright? I don’t want a scar on it.”

“Frank.”

“Although that would be pretty hardcore.”

“Frank.”

“But wait, it doesn’t even scar, right? I mean, Brian doesn’t have any scars…”

“Frank,” Bob says again, using his best you-take-one-more-flying-leap-from-the-top-of-that-whatever-and-I-will- _cut_ -you voice. “Frank, I’m not feeding off of you.”

“Look, I know you normally don’t go for stuff that’s still in someone, but I think this is pretty much an emergency. I’m not going to let you starve, you don’t want to bother Brian who _probably_ won’t be able to do anything anyway, and I pretty much refuse to let you eat raw cow. Seriously. Bite me, motherfucker, or so help me, I will open up a vein right here.”

Bob twitches. Even though his first impulse is to yell for Brian and let him deal with an overly-helpful Frankie, it’s not his favorite impulse. It’s probably not even the smartest one. He should have thought of this before. He needs to feed, and that’s that.

“Okay,” Bob says.

Frank blinks. “Okay?”

“Yeah, okay,” Bob repeats. “You have defeated me with your strange Iero logic. Now go get some juice and a candy bar or something from the vending machine. Fuck if I’m dragging you back to the hospital when you faint.”

Frank blinks at him one more time before grinning, jumping off the bed, and rushing out of the room.

Christ. Bob lies back on the bed and tries not to think about what he’s about to do.

It feels like only a few seconds before Frank is back again, toeing off his shoes and throwing everything onto the other bed before hopping onto Bob’s. “Okay, so. How does this work?”

Bob sits up a little. Swallows. “I. Your shirt.”

Frank stares at him. “My shirt.”

“Yeah. If you take it off, I. I can hear you heart. Feel it. Make sure I’m not taking too much.”

“Oh. Yeah, sure, jeez. For a second I thought…”

Bob feels like his face is burning. “No, God. I mean, Frankie…”

“I’m just saying, there are easier ways to get me in bed than faking a vampire emergency.”

“Fuck you,” Bob retorts. “Come over here. I am going to suck you _dry_.”

Frank giggles. “That’s the dirtiest thing you’ve ever said to me, Bryar.”

“I dunno, what about ‘your mom’?”

“Fucker.” Frank lay down on the bed next to Bob, side by side. “This good?”

“Yeah, just.” Bob slid in a little closer, one hand under Frank’s neck. “Just feels like a pinch at first.” He can feel Frank’s heart pounding in his chest, the steadily increasing bump-bump-badump of his heart, and the very second his fangs extend. It makes him feel like a sick fuck sometimes, that getting this close brings out that reaction in him. But he can’t help it and he’s _hungry_ and Frank just tastes so good that Bob is fang-deep in Frank’s neck before either of them can blink.

Jepha asked him what it was like once – the drinking. Bob’s not good with words on the best of days, but he said it was like coffee that’s just the right temperature or the perfect mix of lime and salt and shot, all the way down. Exactly what you’ve been craving, exactly the way you remember it. Hitting the spot every time. Except Bob always wants more even when he’s not hungry, and he’s never admitted that to anyone – not Jepha, not Brian, not anyone.

He certainly couldn’t admit that to Frank.

Not now, not with his mouth on Frank’s neck, not with one hand delicately cradling Frank’s jaw, the other’s fingers digging into Frank’s hip, his thumb pressed just over the waist of Frank’s jeans. Not when all Bob wants to do is keep drinking, drinking until maybe he isn’t hungry anymore, until Frank is gone and writhing beneath him –

He’s already hard.

It’s like someone threw a bucket of ice water in Bob’s face. Frank’s heart is beating fast; the too-fast that leads quickly into too-slow, and _fuck_. Bob pulls back immediately, fangs unlatching from Frank’s neck with a slick wet sound that’s obscene in the quiet of the room, complimented only by the hum of the AC and Frank’s ragged breathing.

Frank’s pupils are dilated. Blown wide, like Bert after one of his better (worse) trips. When he touches his neck the tips of his fingers come back stained red, and Bob has to look away. Run his tongue over his teeth.

“Is it always like that?”

Bob manages to swallow around his tongue. “Sometimes.”

It’s never been anything like that.

Frank shudders a little. “Whoa. No _wonder_ Brian was okay with letting you suck on him all the time.”

And those are other thoughts Bob really doesn’t want to deal with right now. “Sugar,” he stammers. “The juice. You look a little shaky.”

“Right. Right. Yeah, let me…” Frank lurches his way into a sitting position. Bob’s not quite at a hundred percent, not yet, but at this point he’s doing better than Frank. He hands Frank his shirt and the bottle of juice. “Thanks.”

“No problem. Uhm.” Bob wipes the last bit of blood still on Frank’s neck. “Sorry.”

“S’all right.”

When Frank turns around Bob brings his hand up to his mouth and sucks, quiet and desperate, tongue curling around his own fingers. His fangs start to descend again, and he has to bite down on his own hand. Not the time. Not at all.

| |

And that would be that if Frank hadn’t suddenly decided he wanted to drive Bob _crazy_.

Bob’s good at ignoring things. He’s good at waiting them out and he’s good at letting them go. It makes him a pretty chill dude, good to have around in a crisis. He’s steady. Dependable. But all of Bob’s stoicism and let-it-be-ness? Well, if Bob can’t actually _let it be_ , at some point he has to explode and that’s never pretty. Case in point being the infamous drum massacre of ’06, and _why_ has Bob never realized before that all his personal space issues begin and end with Frank?

Frank won’t leave him alone lately. He won’t stop sitting with Bob, squeezing in next to him when he can and sitting on Bob’s lap when he can’t. Sometimes he comes up behind Bob, bites him on the neck, and runs away giggling like a motherfucker. Whenever Bob is around Frank has taken to stroking the pulse on the side of his neck. Bob’s got no clue if any of this shit is subconscious or what, but _fuck_. Bob’s had it. Bob is only a man, even if a remarkably stoic man who drinks blood now and again, and Frank has pushed him to the edge.

So the next time Frank comes up to him – the next time Frank _invades_ his personal space – Bob does the only logical thing, really.

He bites him.

Not even with his fangs. Just his teeth, just dull human teeth, just enough to dig in a little. Not even breaking skin. He does it to freak Frank out, mostly to get him to back the fuck _off_. Only Frank arches into in, snaps straight up like Bob hit his jugular, and moans.

Well, fuck.

Bob still has his teeth buried in Frank’s neck, just _his_ teeth, but he’s desperately aware that if he hadn’t fed just a few days ago this would all be a lot messier. As it is, he’s got to concentrate on letting go, on scraping over Frank’s jaw, his cheekbone, on keeping a solid hold on Frank through the click of their teeth and the sharp tug of catching his lip ring the wrong way.

Frank’s thighs are stretched wide apart over Bob’s hips, tiny fucking _Frank_ , man. Tiny fucking Frank who could pound Bob into the pavement if he ever got mad enough, whose blood is throbbing in his veins so hard and hot that Bob can feel it under his hands, and he wants to follow the pulse through Frank’s body, find every beating artery and taste the skin just over them.

In fact, yes, there’s a plan.

“Bunk,” he rasps. “Bunk _now_.” He thinks Frank agrees, from the way he’s pulling on Bob’s shirt, gurgling something that might be “yes” but definitely isn’t a “no.”

Bob manages to mostly strip them both before they get into the bunk, but just barely. Frank squirms under him, almost thrashing, and when Bob tries to yank Frank’s shirt off it gets tangled halfway. Bob gets distracted for a moment, Frank’s arms trapped above his head –

“Please,” Frank chokes out, betraying in its sincerity, in the sheer _want_ of it. He growls like a trapped animal and Bob presses his hand to Frank’s stomach, fingers spanning the length of the tattoo there. Frank’s stomach flutters like birds’ wings under the touch, like something’s trying to claw its way out.

Bob can relate. This is Frank he’s so desperate for, this is _Frank_ , sleek and compact, big dark eyes and splotches of ink, one leg bent up around Bob’s thigh, and Bob is aching with some need he doesn’t have a name for, isn’t sure he wants to know.

“Bob. Bob, man, c’mon,” Frank whispers, baring his neck, pulse jumping wildly, and Bob only has enough time to think _fuck_ , feels his mouth flood and pushes his face into the curve of Frank’s neck – biting too hard, he knows. And the rush of blood to the surface, the copper-salt on Bob’s tongue, is too much. He comes a second after Frank, hot and slick all over the both of them, and when Frank gasps Bob can feel the way the sound catches in his throat.

| |

Eventually, dimly, Bob hears the door slam open, someone saying “whoa” and then “fuck” before rushing back out again. Bob might not have been as careful pulling the curtains closed as he could have been.

“We may have traumatized Mikey,” Frank giggles from beneath him, and Bob is not looking forward to _that_ talk tomorrow. Bob cranes his neck to give Frank his most unamused look, which only makes Frank laugh harder. When Frank starts wiggling around, Bob can see from the light coming in through the space in the curtains that he’s gnawed Frank’s neck raw, and it’s like a quick punch to the stomach.

“Jesus,” Bob whispers. Everything was too quick before for shame or embarrassment or to even think about what the fuck he was doing. When he presses his mouth to the reddest mark Frank just shivers closer, humming a little. It’s sticky under his mouth, a little slick with spit, and Frank just keeps humming, something low and tuneless and quiet. It soothes something in Bob’s chest. Makes him take whatever he’s grappling with and box it up for later.

“C’mere,” Frank slurs, one hand tugging on the hem of Bob’s shirt. And Bob goes.

| |

“Never in the lounge,” Mikey announces the next morning. “And never in the kitchen, unless everyone is forewarned and things are sterilized.”

“Christ,” Gerard mutters from the bunk below him. “Mikey, _geez_.”

“But other than that, I’m happy for you.”

Bob tries to put his head back under the pillow but Frank is still mostly on top of it. “Thanks. Now go away.” It’s still _morning_ and Bob wants some sleep before anyone – either him or Frank or any other member of the band, or _Christ_ , Brian – starts freaking out.

Shit. It’s probably going to be Brian.

“Move _over_ ,” Bob grumbles, and pokes Frank until he snuffles and flails and works his way into Bob’s armpit. At least he’s off the pillow now. Bob buries his head under it.

Seriously. This shit is _never_ on Behind the Music.

| |

Bob wakes up to Frank’s elbow in his ribs and Frank’s head still somewhere in the vicinity of his armpit.

Frank butts his head against Bob’s shoulder. “Soundcheck’s in half an hour.” Bob hums in agreement. He doesn’t even know what state they’re in right now, much less what city they’re playing tonight. “That’s enough time…” Frank trails off, kind of suggestively but halfway through a yawn, and Bob smirks a little.

“Save it for the stage, Iero. It’s not my job to hump Gerard while I play.”

“Technically not mine either.” Frank yawns again. “It’s an extracurricular.”

Bob snorts. “M’gonna get coffee.”

“Four sugars,” Frank says immediately. Bob pushes the pillow over Frank’s face. Like he doesn’t know how Frank likes his coffee. And like he’s _actually_ going to give Frank that much sugar.

| |

Everyone else is already in the lounge, probably to give them morning-after space, but maybe because of Mikey’s screeching at ass o’clock this morning. Ray’s already playing Guitar Hero, either totally oblivious to the fact that Bob has finally rolled out of the bunk or that Bob and Frank even slept together. Possibly both. Mikey is texting on his Sidekick, utterly unconcerned. Gerard, unfortunately, is looking at Bob with one of those I Am Being Very Serious And I Mean Business faces that he pulls out of nowhere for special occasions. Bob has a sinking feeling he’s about to be called “Robert.”

“Robert,” Gerard begins, and Bob rolls his eyes.

“I know what I’m doing.”

The look only increases in intensity. If Gerard goes for Bob’s middle name, Bob will not be held responsible for his actions.

“As much as anyone possibly could,” Bob concedes. The ‘it’s _Frank_ ’ goes unspoken. So does the ‘it won’t mess up the band,’ the ‘I’m trusting you to tell us when we fuck up,’ and the ‘please, _please_ tell Brian for us.’ Bob has perfected the art of not having to say anything to get his point across.

Gerard looks at Bob for a long moment before nodding. “Okay,” he says, and goes back to scribbling in his notebook.

“Okay,” Bob echoes, and starts rooting around for two clean – or even clean _ish_ , he knows he’s the neat freak, but _Christ_ – coffee cups.

| |

“Did Mikey tell us not to have sex in the lounge this morning or did I dream that?” is the first thing Frank asks when he stumbles into the lounge.

Bob carefully hands Frank one of the cups of coffee. Fucking spatial reasoning skills. He always pours too much. “No, definitely Mikey.”

Mikey’s head appears briefly over the side of the couch. “No sex in the kitchen either.”

“No fun at all, Mikey Way.” Frank cautiously takes a sip, then – “Hey!”

“Three sugars,” Bob says. “Don’t say I never did anything for you.”

Frank beams and clambers onto Bob’s lap. Bob avoids flyaway knees and elbows with the air of the long-suffering, one hand on the dip of Frank’s back, and pointedly ignores the look Gerard sends him. It’s less Very Serious and more You Big Sap, which is kind of ridiculous considering Frank already spends most of his time climbing all over Bob.

Frank slurps his coffee, the solid heat of him pressed back against Bob’s chest, and Bob almost forgets to think about what Frank would taste like now, caffeine-sharp and sleep-sour, pulse slow and steady and warm.


End file.
